


Stranger in a Strange Land

by yukitsukihana



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Time Travel, Amnesia, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Language Barrier, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2019-05-09 12:05:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yukitsukihana/pseuds/yukitsukihana
Summary: A strange land can be made all the stranger when one has no memories to draw from.It certainly doesn't help that he can't understand a word anyone is saying.





	1. Prologue

He ran.

Screams and smoke filled the air, along with the occasional ring of blade against blade.

And still he ran.

Moving was difficult. It hurt. Every motion sent agony up his spine. But to stop meant death. Or worse. The sensation of unwanted hands ghosting over him, pulling at clothes and limbs and hair, invaded his memories.

His foot caught on something and all images faded from his mind as he fell face-first into the dirt and mud, bound hands trapped beneath him.

He scrambled up and continued to run, not daring to look back at whatever had tripped him, not wanting to see whether it had been simple stone or a body left behind by the brigands.

Those brigands, the same ones that had captured him as he had wandered aimlessly in an attempt to find civilization, were currently occupied by…someone else. He hadn’t stuck around to find out who. Local guard? Another gang of bandits? He’d heard the warning cry go up, interspersed with unfamiliar words, as the troop that had been… _entertaining_ themselves with the captured villagers filed out, leaving one guard behind, to defend the spoils of war.

One guard who now lay dead in a pool of blood caused by a fucking chair leg to the throat; he’d seen to that himself. The prisoners scattered, and he hadn’t wanted to remain behind, just in case whoever was engaging his former captors wasn’t benevolent.

And so he ran.

He had hoped to at least make it to the tree line, but the sudden sound of horses’ hooves in pursuit ruined thought of sanctuary. He dared to look over his shoulder at his tail, eyes widening at the sight of an armored man on an equally armored horse bearing down on him. His distraction with his pursuer cost him as he misstepped, ankle twisting as he once again crashed into the ground, scraping his cheek against the harsh grit. The blade of a lance was in his face before he could get back up, and he froze, some deep animalistic instinct hoping that if he didn’t move, he wouldn’t die.

The armored man spoke harshly, demanding, but the foreign words washed over him. How could he answer when he couldn’t even understand what was being asked of him? His eyes flashed from the other man’s face, to his posture, to the grip on the weapon. He couldn’t flee, but maybe… If only…

Another foreign voice broke through the background, and the cavalier’s attention was drawn towards it for a brief moment.

The mistake he’d been waiting for.

His hands may have been bound, the coarse rope cutting into skin, but he could still move, still grip. He grabbed the shaft of the polearm. Apply some pressure here, some leverage there… Kick out at the horse’s legs to force it to rear…

With a surprised shout from the other man, the resistance on the other end of the lance was lost, and he jumped up, spinning the weapon around and pointing the blade back at his possible captor and new friends. The weapon was his.

The polearm was heavy in his hands and he struggled to keep a competent grip on it. Obviously while he knew the weapon, he’d had no training with it, but he couldn’t afford to slip up now; it could mean his death.

There was more shouting from the man on the horse, and he pointed the weapon at him, deciding he was the bigger threat at the moment. He still had a disadvantage against someone so obviously trained, but he could maybe cause enough injury to allow his retreat.

He hoped.

The voice of the new arrival – a swordsman, definitely a trained swordsman from the way he held his blade to the tone of his muscles – cut through the horseman’s bellowing, softer, but with assured authority. The swordsman was in charge. He took a step back. If he was rushed… He was dead. He was so dead. A polearm might have superior reach versus a sword, but his lack of familiarity with the weapon, pit against a trained fighter? He would die, no question about it. He stepped back again, attempting to subtly put some more distance between the two… No, trio. Maybe if he could get to the tree line…

The swordsman was speaking to him now. Not that it really mattered. He could tell he was being evaluated as much as he had been evaluating the other man. There was no way he was a true threat to the group, and it was only a matter of time before they figured that out…

“I can’t understand what you are saying,” he pleaded. Maybe they would understand that? The bandits had spoken his language, at least. Mostly (not that they’d listened to a word he’d said).

The swordsman’s eyes widened in surprise – had he understood? – and then the cavalier was speaking again… He chanced a glance over to the man, finding his attention on the leader, who was now attempting to speak with him again. Obviously he hadn’t understood. Damn it! He took another careful step backwards.

The third person was speaking now. A girl? Or perhaps a young boy… No, that was definitely a dress she was wearing. To battle? It may have been armored, but it certainly wasn’t very practical… Ah, the ‘weapon’ she was wielding was a healing rod, rather than a true weapon. It could still hurt if swung, but she was obviously a support unit rather than a frontline fighter. The swordsman was still the largest threat.

He was still speaking in soft, quiet tones. He couldn’t understand, he’d said as much (but how much use was that when the other party couldn’t understand either?), but the fact that this man was trying to communicate with him rather than attack him lit a small fire of hope in his chest. Were these people some sort of law enforcement? Their lack of uniform made him doubt such a conclusion, but the possibility still existed. The swordsman’s fingers were working at his belt now, and his breath caught in his throat. No, not again-!

But no, the man was only removing his weapon, laying it on the ground and spreading his arms. Unarmed. Not a threat.

(He was still a threat, with that training, but now there was less of one; less chance of death)

The man never once lost his comforting tone of voice, taking another step towards him. He fought the urge to step back. Could he even allow himself to hope…?

He adjusted his grip on the lance again, evaluating the distance between them, and noticing the man pause, the horseman barking out another…warning? He could charge forward, run the man through… No, he wasn’t fooling anyone. There was enough space between them that his attack could be dodged, especially with his inability to wield the polearm. Or that horseman could run him down before he even got to the leader. One didn’t need a weapon to trample an enemy with a horse, after all.

The man spoke again and he finally – finally! – looked into his eyes. One could gauge emotion and intent there. And what he saw…

Kindness. Gentleness. Concern…? A hardness that implied he would use deadly force to defend himself should he be attacked… But no anger, hate, or bloodlust.

The man was close enough that he could now take a single step forward, thrust the spear into that unprotected chest… But instead, he let the man rest his hand below the blade, gently urging it down and away. He let him, but couldn’t help taking another step backwards in fear. He may not have had a sword, but he could still hurt him.

The bandits hadn’t really needed weapons to subdue him; just overpowering strength and numbers.

Hands were reaching towards his, now, and he couldn’t stop the pained hiss and flinch that came with fingers brushing against the raw skin of his wrists. And still the man hadn’t stopped talking. It was soothing, even if he couldn’t understand a word that was being said. And he knew the other knew he couldn’t understand. But it still helped.

There was a question in there. He recognized the upward inflection at the end of a sentence that denoted one. He shook his head in response. He couldn’t understand-!

His eyes caught on the man’s bare shoulder. There was a symbol there. Faint. The shadows from firelight had obscured it before, but now, here, it was clear. Dark, the color of a bruise, and reminiscent of a flame in a crucible.

He’d seen it before.

He reached out. The one familiar thing he had in this strange land; the one familiar image in the nothingness that was his memory. More familiar than the strange symbol branding his own hand.

Black crept into his vision and the ground rushed up to meet him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been years since I've played this game why the heck am I so obsessed with this fandom and pairing NOW
> 
>  
> 
> also look at how much difference missing someone by a day or two can make


	2. CHAPTER 1: Unwanted(?) Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Captain of the Shepherds investigates the rumor of some bandits...

Chrom sighed as he pushed his hair away from his face for the nth time today. It was hot. It was hot and muggy. And it was _spring_. Why was it so hot and humid in _spring_?! He had long since tuned out Lissa’s complaints, and she had predictably shifted target to Frederick. Probably to complain that he had a horse and didn’t have to walk as much as they did, conveniently ignoring the fact that the knight had often given up his spot on his steed for Lissa. Even though right now was a case of ‘building character’ and wasn’t it convenient that his sister had forgotten that Chrom hadn’t been on that horse at all in the past several days? Maybe he should start complaining…

Why were they even out here again, in this unseasonal weather? Something about bandits spotted in the countryside near Southtown, threatening the merchant caravans, right? Though they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of any during their trek from the capital. There was always the chance it was a false alarm, but with the increased reports – and victims – from other bandit attacks across the country? It was likely the threat existed.

All they had to do now was _find_ the damned dastards.

He glanced back at his sister and knight. Frederick had since dismounted, walking beside the horse, but now _no one_ was riding and Lissa was attempting to make an argument for that, countered by what could only be summarized as ‘it builds character.’ Removing his glove, he wiped away the sweat pooling on the back of his neck. It was _so hot_. Maybe he should speak up and claim that saddle for himself…

“Chrom, look!”

He blinked, turning to look at what suddenly held Lissa’s attention, only to see a plume of smoke rising from the trees. Too large, too dark to be caused by a campfire or fireplace. Wasn’t there a small farming village in that direction…?

“That bears investigation,” the cavalier stated, swiftly mounting his horse. Chrom had to agree.

“Go, Frederick.”

“Milord, if there are brigands about, it would be unwise to leave you.”

“You’re the swiftest of us with that horse of yours. If there are bandits, engage, and we’ll catch up. If not, then return to us. Lissa and I can handle ourselves for a few minutes.” He smiled to allay the fears of his ever-worried knight. Sometimes he wondered if Frederick remembered he could handle himself in a fight, or if he still saw a tiny whelp with a sword as long as he. And while Lissa was younger and carried no edged weapon, they’d _both_ seen her skill with an axe. In a pinch, that healing rod of hers could likely shatter the very bone it was built to mend.

Frederick gave a nod of affirmation before spurring his horse away towards the smoke. “C’mon, Lissa,” he urged with a grin, picking up the pace himself. “Can’t let Frederick have all the fun.”

She turned to him, matching his grin and pace. “It’s about _time_ we saw some action!”

 

* * *

 

He plunged Falchion through another bandit’s chest, the divine blade easily piercing the man’s leather armor. Spinning around, he scanned his surroundings for his next opponent, finding none in the immediate area. Time to move onto the next, then.

When they’d arrived in the small farming village, Chrom had sensed more than seen his sister give pause, gasping at the scene. Houses on fire, villagers slain and left to rot in the streets, bandits chasing those attempting to flee… The sound of metal on metal drew his attention and he saw Frederick parry a bandit’s attack, only to run him through with that spear of his. Good, he’d already engaged. “C’mon, Lissa,” he muttered, trying to snap his sister out of her stupor. They’d seen the travesties bandits had wrought before, but it never got easier. “Let’s go deal with the rest. Stay close.” There was no way she’d be able to keep up with Frederick’s movements on his horse, and while Chrom could move at a faster pace than she, he was _not_ leaving her behind.

There hadn’t been as many brigands as he’d expected from the initial scope of destruction, leaving him to wonder if there were more nearby. Then again, they were all heavily outfitted with armor and weapons, while the village had no protection whatsoever. Hopefully these were all there were.

Frederick’s voice carried over to him from the other side of the building they were standing on, though he couldn’t make the words out over the crackle of fire. At least the screaming had stopped…

Motioning to Lissa with his head, the two rounded the corner, ready to help out their friend if necessary.

He wasn’t prepared to see said friend pinning down an unarmed and unarmored boy at lance-point. Sure, his skin was as dark as – if not darker than – the obviously Plegian brigands, but that didn’t automatically mean he was one of them! They were in a time of peace!

“Hold, Frederick! What’s going on here?”

“Milord!” The knight turned his head to address him, lance still pointed at the kid. “This boy is obviously Plegian. Perhaps he-”

It happened so quickly that Chrom barely saw it. Frederick’s horse reared up in fright, and as the knight attempted to calm her down, the white-haired Plegian boy turned Frederick’s own weapon on him. Chrom could see that while the grip wasn’t quite that of an amateur, he still struggled to hold it. A flash of tan and red drew his attention. Well, that rope binding his wrists probably didn’t help matters.

“How _dare_ you! Bandit scum! Milord, I-”

Chrom sighed. “That’s enough, Frederick.” The boy’s attention shot to him, brown eyes giving him a once-over before pointing the lance at him. Even though Frederick was closer. Well, then. “You shouldn’t jump to conclusions like that. Just _look_ at him! He has no weapon. Of his own,” he quickly amended. “No armor.” Understatement. The boy was wearing only a beige tunic. His bare feet and legs were spattered with cuts and blood and bruises. It didn’t look like he even had trousers…

Oh.

Oh that poor thing.

“And his hands are bound. He’s obviously a prisoner of those bandits,” he stated quickly, attempting to draw attention away from the state of the boy’s undress. Lissa was still innocent to this aspect of the world (he hoped), and this wasn’t the way he wanted to introduce her to it. Not that he wanted to introduce her to… _that,_ at all. “It’s okay,” he addressed the boy, stretching out his hand. “We’re the Shepherds. A peacekeeping force here in Ylisse. We’re not going to hurt you.”

The boy let out a string of words that Chrom couldn’t even hope to parse, and he blinked. Plegian? Damn. He should’ve paid more attention to his foreign language instructors. Emm knew the language, but she was back in the capital, not here, and Chrom needed to diffuse the situation quickly. He doubted dragging the kid back with them just so they could speak to each other would help. Not now, at least.

And that was another thing. That voice had been deeper than he’d expected. Older. Looked like the boy…wasn’t. Not really. Though he certainly looked young.

Not that age was all that important in this situation either. “I’m sorry,” apologized, fairly sure the sentiment would be lost. “I don’t know Plegian. And I’m guessing you don’t know Ylissean.” Why, oh why hadn’t he paid more attention? ‘Yes,’ ‘no,’ and ‘hello’ were all he could remember, and those were useless here. A fearful step away from him was Chrom’s answer. Poor guy looked ready to bolt. And while stopping him could be seen as a threatening action, the prince didn’t want to let him just run away into the woods. With his lack of equipment and the possibility of more brigands about, the young Plegian wouldn’t last very long.

“Chrom.” Lissa’s voice cut through his thoughts, and he glanced over at his sister. “We have to help him.” Her hands gripped tightly at her wand. Healing him would certainly show their goodwill, but there was no guarantee that he’d run as soon as he was able to. Chrom had caught him favoring his left leg. It didn’t look broken, but he was trying to keep weight off of it. Twisted or sprained, then? He didn’t doubt the kid – no, man – would attempt to flee on it, injuring himself further, but he certainly wouldn’t get as far as he would if Lissa healed the injury now.

“I know, Lissa. I don’t think he understands what we’re saying at all, though. We have to show him we mean him no harm.” He hadn’t missed the way those brown eyes kept flashing to the sword on his waist. Well, if he was considered a threat while armed, maybe he’d be less of one if unarmed. He pulled at the belt holding Falchion’s sheath, and though his attention was on his own weapon, no one could miss the visible flinch the Plegian made at his movements. It took a moment for Chrom to draw the connection. Ah, shit, he hadn’t meant…

With one swift motion, he pulled sheath and belt off his waist, holding it up, then carefully laying it on the ground. “See? I’m putting it down. We’re not going to hurt you.”

“Milord, I must protest-”

“Not _now_ , Frederick. I know what you’re going to say, and you can yell at me all you want _later_. Please.” The knight obviously wasn’t pleased with him for his actions, but this took precedence. And if he wound up injured, _then_ Frederick could yell at him all he wanted for how stupid he was definitely being right now. He had seen the minute flinches the boy made every time he moved or Frederick spoke; could see that shift in stance that had him prepared to lunge _forward_ rather than backwards. But Chrom could still see the hesitation borne from facing an opponent who had just disarmed himself. “It’s okay,” he tried again. “It’s okay.” Maybe the meaning of his words weren’t getting through, but by using a soft tone, the sentiment could. Though if spoken the same way, Chrom might have had success listing off the ingredients in Maribelle’s stew. This was hardly the time to try, though, even if the thought was amusing. As it was, he felt as if he were trying to calm a skittish horse, slowly edging himself towards its reins.

Speaking quietly, he managed to achieve eye contact, and the fear he saw there made his heart constrict. How much had this boy been through? Was he a slave? Plegia still had slaves, right? He thought he remembered something like that in his foreign affairs lessons. Urgh, he should have paid more attention to those, too. But there was hope in that face; the smallest glimmer of trust, and Chrom silently vowed to himself to do his best to not betray it.

Finally, _finally,_ he was within range of the weapon, gently placing his hand on the shaft and moving it so it couldn’t easily be wielded against him. “See? Not going to hurt you. We’re the good guys.” His eyes were drawn to those wrists once again, and he bit down on his lip to quell the anger he felt. The boy might mistake it as anger directed at him, rather than the ones who caused him harm. It looked worse now that Chrom was up close and could see the full extent of the damage. It seemed like the boy had tried for all his worth to struggle out of his bindings, but the ropes were knotted tight. Their frayed edges were even now cutting into flesh, and he could see fresh blood on both skin and hemp. Disarming Frederick must have been so painful. Chrom moved his own hands toward his, letting the boy flinch away at his touch, the lance clattering to the ground. But instead of withdrawing completely, the Plegian allowed Chrom to gently lift his wrists up for inspection. That was a good sign. “I’m sorry. Did that hurt? I did not mean to cause you pain. Lissa is a healer. Will you come with us? Let us help?” The shake of a head was his answer, and Chrom could only smile. He could tell the negative had only been a reaffirmation of his lack of understanding, rather than denying medical assistance.

There was a curious mark on the Plegian’s hand as well, one Chrom recalled from his history lessons.

The mark of the Grimleal.

But as to what it meant, he could only guess at. A slave brand? A ritual sacrifice? Though the mark didn’t appear to be scarred or burned into skin at all. Rather, it looked a bit like a tattoo.

Or like his own Brand of the Exalt.

Curious eyes suddenly widened in – was that recognition? – as they lit upon Chrom’s shoulder – the Brand. Did he know who Chrom was? His identity was hardly secret here in Ylisse, but he had no idea if the symbol and meaning behind the Brand was taught in Plegia.

Not that he could ask even if he had the capacity to, as the boy dropped suddenly, and it was all Chrom could do to keep him from hitting the ground. A cursory examination revealed him to be unconscious. He sighed in relief. That was probably for the best, at the moment. They could get him cleaned up and tended to without terrifying him further.

He heard Lissa’s footsteps run up to him as he hefted the Plegian into his arms. “Is he okay? What happened?”

“He just passed out. He’s likely had a rough day. Or week.” Or life. There was no telling how long the boy had endured such torture, but Chrom would make sure he wouldn’t any longer. The sound of clanking armor and the scrape of a weapon across the ground had him sighing again, this time in resignation. “Are you going to lecture me now, Frederick?”

A sniff. “You seem to understand how rash and foolhardy your actions were, and I doubt any lecture of mine would prevent you from doing the same thing again, much as I may try.”

Chrom chuckled. “You know me well, old friend.” Someone had been hurt and in danger, and Chrom couldn’t help but rush to the rescue. But at least he had Frederick the Wary to attempt to pound some sense into that thick skull of his. “We need to get the rest of these fires out, and tend to the injured.” And the dead. “Lissa, you’ll help me with the latter. Frederick, after the flames are doused, I’d like you to scout the area for more bandits.”

“The Plegian boy…”

“Is likely just as much a victim as the villagers.” He held up a hand to stave off further protest. “I know, I’ll be careful. But you’re best suited to making sure the threat is well and truly gone. After we’ve secured this location, then we can send for assistance from the capital.”

A bow. “As you wish, Milord.”

Chrom looked over at the destruction, letting out another sigh. They would have to work fast. Ylisse was still recovering from the decimation of crops during the last war, and each farm was precious. They couldn’t afford a blow to their food production, not again.

 

* * *

 

The single tavern had only two bedrooms, and had been spared the destruction the rest of the town had suffered, if only because the bandits had claimed it as their own. Several homes had been lost to the blaze set by the dastards, along with a few crops, and many (too many) lives. The gem in Lissa’s healing rod had begun to crack from use, and would likely break soon. And they didn’t have a backup.

Chrom hoped assistance would arrive soon. A messenger had been sent as soon as Frederick had returned with news of no visible bandit activity. Of course, that had only been scant hours ago, and while Southtown was a day’s ride away and could supply some relief in the meantime, true help wouldn’t arrive for at least a week. And much as he and Lissa wanted to, they knew they wouldn’t be able to wait around.

The prince looked over at the white-haired boy still sleeping in the bed. He had been the first one to be healed by Lissa, the marks from his bindings now faded to faint scars. But the Grimleal symbol on his hand hadn’t faded at all, reinforcing the idea that it was not a brand, but a tattoo. Or a birthmark.

(Chrom didn’t want to think about that second possibility, not now, not here)

The villagers hadn’t been able to provide much information about him, but it had been enough to allay Frederick’s suspicions somewhat.

He’d arrived with the bandits, and kept with other villager prisoners. Yet he was the only one who’d been bound. Another survivor of the bandits’ _recreation_ spoke up in his defense, claiming the Plegian had attempted to fight on her behalf, and had even managed to slay one of them during Frederick’s initial attack, allowing the rest to escape. Even if he and the brigands were countrymen, they certainly were no allies.

The townsfolk had procured some spare clothes for the Plegian as well (“My son ain’t gonna be wearin’ these no more; I’d ‘least like to see that po’ boy have somethin’ decent”), and the group had been offered food (“The least we can do fer you Shepherds savin’ us farmfolk”), though Chrom had accepted as little as possible. Even taking from the bandits’ spoils, the villagers had been left with so little, and the prince could go hungry for a few days if it meant his people wouldn’t.

Speaking of, there had been a fair bit recovered from the bandits. It had likely been taken from the merchant caravans from the reports, but the chance of tracking down the original owners (if they were even alive) was so slim that Chrom thought it best to let the villagers who had lost so much have the items. There had been the recovered weapons and armor, some food (exotic food, even, from Plegia and even far-off Valm), and a few rather nice outfits. He hadn’t stayed to examine the spoils, instead choosing to return to watching over their errant Plegian. Though Chrom didn’t think his company would be all that appreciated, he didn’t want to risk the chance of the boy sneaking off and getting himself in more danger. Especially when he obviously couldn’t speak the language. Even though the two countries were at peace, tensions in Ylisse were ramping up due to the Plegian bandits plaguing the land. And if the boy couldn’t speak the language, he wouldn’t be able to defend himself.

“Hey, Chrom?” Lissa’s voice cut through his thoughts, floating up from downstairs. “You might wanna come and see this.”

Now what could that be? His sister had been more than happy to dig through bandit loot; perhaps she’d found something of note? He glanced over at the still-sleeping Plegian, deciding that it would be fine to leave him for a few minutes. Unless he decided to leap out the window, there was only one entry and exit to the building.

“Yes, Lissa?” he said, descending the stairs. “What did you find?”

In her hands was a cloak. That in itself wouldn’t be so unusual. However, there were three purple eyes sewn into each sleeve, and the entire outfit was lined with gold cord. Goldwork patterns adorned the hems, and the interior was a rich royal purple. Chrom stepped forward, feeling the fabric between his fingers. That purple was made of _silk_. And the exterior felt more of cotton than wool.

“There was this, too.” Leaving the clothing in Chrom’s hands, Lissa retrieved another article from a burlap sack, far too plain of a container for such rich clothes. The gold plating of the belt buckles caught his eye first, followed by more of the same rich purple silk falling in a layered skirt from the heavy leather, with even more gold embroidery patterned the edges of the fabric. The only person he could think of who wore more gold than this was Emm, and that purple…

Maybe he wasn’t being fair. Purple dye did come from Plegia, after all, and since the previous war began, prices had skyrocketed, leaving only Ylissean nobles able to afford the color. But that was here in Ylisse. It was likely the color was far more common and popular in its home country (and it _had_ to be of Plegian origin, especially sporting Grimleal eyes), but _silk_ -! Silk was reserved only for nobles, no matter the country. And there was no way this belonged to any of the brigands, who had been wearing furs and leather.

Chrom found himself looking up at the ceiling, as if he could see the white-haired boy through the wooden planks. Who in the seven hells _was_ that kid?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize 'dastard' is just a placeholder for bastard so they can keep their rating but w/e. it's a real word and I like it. it stays
> 
> who else likes the idea of Frederick training an itty bitty Chrom raise your hand
> 
>  
> 
> I love worldbuilding, but how much of my notes will make it into the fic? who knows.  
> pretty much every Plegian mage wears purple, but purple is historically the color of royalty because of the rarity of the dye. so I guess it's just so common in Plegia that p much everyone can afford it (unless every Plegian mage is a noble but I don't want to go there).  
> silk, though, would have originated in Chon'sin, and while cultivation secrets definitely would have migrated to the rest of the world in the past thousand years or w/e, it'd still be rare enough for the upper class (and merchants) on the Ylissean continent to monopolize it.
> 
>  
> 
> so if Chrom has foreign language lessons (even if he's been slacking), why doesn't Robin...?
> 
> ;)


End file.
